A/N
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Quentyn III
"The melee was one thing, but to take him on the road against brigands?" Quentyn asked. Regardless of Daemon's size or skill, the boy was only twelve, and Quentyn was strongly against his inclusion in the force that would set off that day.
Aegon had summoned Quentyn to his chambers far earlier than the man would normally rise. The King was still abed, half covered in a silk sheet the size of a ship's sail, and for the first time in years, alone. He replied to Quentyn without truly rising, saying, "I fear less for the trouble Daemon might find as a knight on the road and more for what he might in the bedchambers of royal maids. Daemon will have Ser Bulwer and you to protect him. He's also not Daeron." The King's point was plain when referencing his weak bodied son and heir. "If any man dares stand in front of him, he'll wield Blackfyre as all that have before him: with strength, courage, Fire and Blood."
Quentyn and fifty other knights and men at arms from the Goldcloaks would travel to the Riverlands and bring the King's Justice to the perpetrators of the attack on the road. When they reached Darry, a smaller party would return with the Blackwood bastards to the capital, and it would be left to the remaining men to ascertain who perpetrated the attack and end the threat with force.
The Red Keep's Master-at-Arms liked the idea of a fight. He'd spent far too long teaching. It was about time someone gave him reason, and he was glad it would be sanctioned by the King.
But the boy was just that: a boy. He didn't want Daemon to be a part of this. "Let him joust and play at killing a few more years before he actually has to take it up as his trade," Quentyn replied. "I'm not all that concerned for his safety. I fear how a few men's deaths at his hands will blacken his heart. There will always be another foe. Let him learn accounting from Larkin and boats from Redwyne. He needs no more lessons in the sword. Let him become a true Lord."
"This is not a discussion," the King replied in his full voice, sitting up in the bed. "Daemon will join you and you will keep him safe. Rather he face brigands in his first real test than a column of armored knights. I'll expect ravens as often as possible. If there is any news, I must receive it immediately and orders will be directed from me through you."
"Yes, your Grace," Quentyn obeyed, letting go of his objection.
After being dismissed, Quentyn went to prepare his things for what would be a long journey. He wouldn't mind being without the usual comforts one might miss, like warm baths and soft beds. Those were things he could go without, but the one thing he knew he needed in abundance was drink, and he'd spent half of the previous day procuring enough wine and ale to last him three moons. He hoped it would be enough.
"My Lord," Jessalyn called, behind her six serving boys with their arms full of Quentyn's barrels for the road. She had become a stalwart in Quentyn's life, for all that it meant to constantly serve him in the ways he needed, and to show his gratitude, the Master-at-Arms put word in Butterwell's ear to promote her to a more worthwhile station. He couldn't remember what the Master of Coin called it, but the woman received a raise and better quarters. There wasn't much more a lowly knight like Quentyn could get her other than that. Unless I wed the wench, but that would serve me poorly.
"Yes, my Lady."
"I'm no Lady, not then, not yet, likely never, but your drink has arrived."
"Load them up on the cart towards the rear of the procession. They are forming up near the Iron Gate. Here's for you and for the lads to share. Make sure they don't spend it on drink."
"What? To save it for you when you get back?" She smiled coyly, her buxom chest more visible in a dress than in the robe she wore when they had first met. Q's eyes wandered down from her face, as they often did, and she scolded him with a stiff upward strike of her knuckle on his chin.
"You seem to be getting to know me well, my Lady."
"Maybe too well. I'll see to the drink in the cart. Would there be anything else you need before departing?"
Quentyn blushed as red as his hair. He knew what she meant, but felt it wrong to ask, as if he was ordering up a pot of stew. "There's things every man wants and needs, but I am the type of man that only accepts that which is freely given or earned."
"If it is help in your chambers, I will freely help you with whatever it is you can come up with. Every woman has things they want and need, and I'm the type of woman to take them when they are available to me."
There's time enough, he thought. All the important things are already on their way, each and every half barrel.
After returning from Jessalyn, nearly all was ready to set off on the road. She had satisfied his every want and need, and he hers, as if she meant to give him fresh thoughts to remember her when he was away, and as relaxed as any man could ever be, Quentyn rode to the front of the column to meet with those that would lead it.
"You smell of a whorehouse," Ser Bulwer grumbled, before Quentyn's horse had even reached them, his dark wide brow bent in disapproval. "You couldn't have fixed that awful red hair at least? Gods, man. You're a knight." The Kingsguard glistened in his moon white armor, his bull's head helm under his elbow, atop a bright white Dornish steed, draped with the flowing white cloak of his order.
We get it, Uthor, you're white. You're a bleedin' White Knight.
"I never remember in the vows it ever mentioning keeping your hair kempt for the Crone. It would be the Crone, no? An old hag to nag about mussed up hair and the smell of the best parts of a woman. Glad to see you too, Ser Bulwer. This is sure to be a jovial romp through the Kingdom."
"If it's all the same," Ser Caswell murmured, all white but less fine in his armor, that compensated for his poorly proportioned frame. "I'll just as soon ride in the back of the column to avoid bickering back and forth. Are we set to depart? What are we waiting for now that Ser Ball is with us?"
Quentyn had Jessalyn strap up his armor. Once on the road, there was no need for comfort, so he had her lace and suit him up, teaching her most of the way through. She hadn't done a poor job, but something was wrong with his chest plate, and he nearly wished Daemon was still his squire to order him to fix her mistake.
"All were here until we got word the King would send us off. Upon the news, the Young Lord decided to take a short leave. I think we all know where he went and why," Ser Bulwer answered.
"And you let him?" Quentyn barked. "If not for the reason he took leave now, the boy might have been able to stay in King's Landing."
"It isn't as harmful as that," Caswell remarked. "They're still too young to make it a problem. It's closer to two children at play than anything any of us should be concerned with."
"It is not our concern I worry about," Quentyn responded. "It is the King's. Should I go and fetch him?"
"Leave him be. Our young Lord Blackfyre is dressed in full plate. What trouble's he going to find with armor on?" Ser Bulwer replied.
The man is more lenient with a twelve-year-old than me, a grown man.
Smallfolk began to gather around the procession as word spread that the King would send them off. King Aegon hadn't been seen in public since his brief appearance at the Queen's funeral, and the capital seemed all the more anxious for it. As poorly as he was received by the nobility at times, the small folk adored him. He was open handed in his rulings towards their rights and wages, and with Westeros at peace, some of the realm's growing prosperity trickled down even to them. The poorest of the poor would never have anything, Quentyn knew, but the shopkeeps and the smiths and the fishmongers seemed to have all prospered under the reign of King Aegon IV. So, when he was to make an appearance, even as fat as he was, the people of the city were eager to see him.
As he looked up and down the column, what they had prepared to trot off with was an impressive force to send against mere brigands. Two arrays of five and twenty mounted Goldcloaks, all in their traditional half armor and wielding fine steel, waited behind two Kingsguard, himself, and four carts full of provisions. Daemon Blackfyre would also join the front of the column, but he was currently not present, and Q hoped that wouldn't lead to even more trouble with his father, the King.
From behind them, the King rode in on maybe the largest horse Quentyn had ever seen. It was huge. And had to be. For only the Gods knew how the man was able to mount it.
Surrounded by what looked like the remainder of the Goldcloaks and the Kingsguard, Aegon rode to them to make his display before they were to set out. Daemon was still nowhere to be seen.
The King wore a scaled doublet, and a flowing black cape with red trimmings sewn around the border to give the appearance of flames. Atop his head was the crown, around his fingers, glistening rings, and at his hip, Dark Sister. Blackfyre now belonged to his newly legitimized son.
When he reined his horse into a halt, King Aegon raised his free hand as if to silence the murmuring crowd. "People of King's Landing! We have all enjoyed the King's Peace as long as it has lasted unmolested, as in peace, men of all stations can strive to thrive. Yet, as word has certainly reached your ears, the King's Peace is now threatened. In the Riverlands, men attacked my kin, children, as blatant an attack on the realm as if it were at this very gate. As your sworn protector, and the protector of the entire realm, I give to you the brave knights and soldiers that will deliver justice to these villains." The King gestured to the procession as if it had been manifested from his very hands. The crowd observed and cheered accordingly.
"Led by the esteemed knights of my Kingsguard, Ser Uthor of House Bulwer, and Ser Carron of House Caswell, the Red Keep's Master-at-Arms Ser Quentyn Ball, and . ."
Quentyn heard Daemon galloping up from the column's rear to take formation at the front. He arrived just in time to receive his cheers as the King called his name. "My natural son, Lord Daemon Blackfyre."
"Where were you, Ser?" Quentyn muttered, as the young Lord finished waving and pulled his horse beside his mentor.
"I needed to see to one last thing."
"Would that thing be the same princess that got you sent on this expedition?"
The King continued with his performance, "This force will root out the evils and ills of the roads, and make this realm once again the safe and prosperous place my subjects want and deserve by right."
As the crowd roared in approval of the mission, Quentyn grumbled, his words mostly for himself to hear, "I don't know if it'll be all that, but it's sure going to be fun once we find them."
"Who? Who are we even looking for?" Ser Caswell asked, butting into Quentyn's private conversation with himself. As useless the knight could look, even in full plate, he was asking the right question.
In his rushed meeting with the Crown Prince, Quentyn had tried to keep up with Daeron's logic in identifying the proper party responsible. Catching brigands in the vastness of the Riverlands would be no easier than catching a specific hare in the Kingswood, so Aegon's blind counter on those that attacked was still more a hope than a vow. If the truth was told, the Blackwood's Master-at-Arms had taken care of most of them himself. This collective was more than likely to find a few poachers and blame them falsely than ever find the true orchestrators of the attack, if it was even meant to specifically target the King's kin.
Like as not, it could have just been unlucky brigands too stupid to recognize the Blackwood sigil and too desperate to care. Yet in his meeting with the Prince, as drunk as he was, the man brought up a few interesting prospects.
Based on the location of the attack, motives for attacking the Blackwoods or the bastards, and the necessary means to do so whether by distant kin or coin, only a few suspects seemed viable. Daeron informed Quentyn that for his aid in deducing who was responsible, he wanted some form of credit for their apprehension, even though he would ever prefer raising a pen to the sword. What the Prince didn't understand though, was that his words would be much less helpful than he considered. Words, no matter how clever, were worth far less than the lives some might have to pay fighting, dirtying and bloodying their own hands. Putting their own lives on the line. So, Quentyn dismissed him brusquely, nearly offended by the smug sense of importance and the cowardly constitution of such a request.
If he wished for the credit, he could saddle up and take up a sword for himself. Then I'd give him all the credit in the world, and then some.
The Prince had seemed overly anxious since returning to King's Landing. His purple eyes seemed to flit from side to side every time Quentyn had noticed him, and every time he seemed to be speaking with another Goldcloak or lord, whispering the whispers that seemed to course through the capital like its lifeblood. Daeron had always treated Quentyn as if he was beneath him, rarely ever conversing with him, only seemingly only speaking if he had some order or reprimand to delve out. Quentyn despised that. As a pampered twat of a royal, the Prince saw men at arms more as weapons to use than men to respect.
Quentyn heard Daeron out anyway, going through the circumstances of the attack and the area in too much detail for his drunk mind to fully follow. He might have even had the right of it, which wasn't surprising, as he always been clever, but Quentyn would never give him credit. Not for something he refused to do himself.
Ser Quentyn Ball would keep his mouth shut and allow the experience of the esteemed Ser Uthor Bulwer and the always-looking-to-prove-himself Ser Carron Caswell to figure out who and where to kill. All Quentyn could hope for was the chance at a proper fight. It had been too long.
The crowd cheered around them, waving red sashes the King had some of his servants handing out, as if to add pomp to their departure. The King always needed opulence and glamor to feel important. Quentyn wondered what Daeron would have done in the King's place.
He wouldn't be joining us, that's for sure.
Quentyn kicked his horse into a trot and followed the two white knights in front of him out of the gate. He said a prayer to the warrior for good weather. The better the weather, the sooner the fight.
It rained the first three nights.
There was no amount of drink that could keep him dry, even under his canopy of furs, each night in the wet but hard mud of the ground just off the Kingsroad. As the autumn air chilled them through the slick of rain on their skin and small clothes, neither of the Kingsguard even attempted anything that could be considered conversation. Daemon was no better company, for as eager as the boy was to leave, was as pensive and moody as he was once gone.
Once, on the first day, Quentyn tried asking how life as a Lord had been treating him. "Wish sometimes I weren't, Q. Wish it was I was still just a squire, or at least just a knight. I spend more time with Grand Maester Larkin and septons than I do in the yard, now. My father gave me Blackfyre only for display in my chambers, as my sword hand is armed with a quill and it's penmanship I'm being drilled."
Quentyn could not turn that into a bit of fun, just the sound of his sober voice repeating shitty things he had once heard his father say.
On the second day, he asked the boy what it was like to wield the sword of Kings. With his black helm down to protect him from the rain, Quentyn could not see the boy's expression, but his answer was shorter than he'd expected. "Wish I truly knew. I can't train with it. I can't carry it to my lessons or through the Keep. It's light and balanced. It floats in your hand, like it belongs, like it's part of you. But all I can think when I see it is it's a bastard blade. I guess it was made for me."
Quentyn knew he should comfort the boy in some way, but he knew not how. Ball was better with jests and insults than anything that could be considered uplifting, so he tried the best he could. "Even if you are a bastard, Daemon, like the sword, you're just about the best bastard there ever was."
"Aye. But still."
Quentyn did not wish to fail again. He kept quiet, his helm slouched, the ping of the rain nearly melodic enough to keep from driving him silly. Until it began to rain harder.
After the third day spent in near silence, the fourth saw them to Sow's Horn. House Hogg had offered their stone keep as a place for rest and real sustenance. It would be their only stop until they reached Darry, which was another five- or six-days ride from Sow's Horn, so Quentyn hoped he'd at least be feasting boar.
They served pig, which was still welcome, but what warmed Ser Ball's chest was the ale that flowed freely. It meant he could save his own for the road. As they feasted in the humble stone hall of the Hogg's keep, hosted by the Lord Cheswick Hogg and his Lady Tayleen, one of the boys from the joust, their second son Horace, who had broken his arm against Manderly, sat at the far end of his family's table with Daemon, who they hosted at the Lord's table, making a show that he was royal in their eyes.
Quentyn wondered if the King's gifts of Lordship and a name suited the boy. He seemed out of place, held up to the crowd, above them. Daemon had never been one to act or seem above anyone, accepting his place or earning a better one. The gifts of respect and deference by default seemed foreign to him. As boastful as he could be winning a joust was as bashful as he was to be recognized only for his blood.
In armor, against foes, he could be a man. In finery, surrounded by nobility, he seemed as much a boy as he had ever been.
After a few rounds of a stiff warm ale, Quentyn began chatting with some of the Goldcloaks. He knew some of them from the capital, though he forgot their names, and he was too embarrassed to ask, waiting for the others to betray their comrades' names in passing. He couldn't remember what to call any of them, just their faces, from all the blurred together nights, drunk, aiding the King in his depravity.
He noticed Daemon loosening up, his thick shoulders back where they were down earlier. His face starting to smirk at some of the Hogg boy's japes. He had a cup in his hand, though he rarely lifted it, likely sipping at it to keep up the appearance he was to the other boys. The one, Horace, with the broken arm, was soon joined by his older and younger brothers, and for once, it looked like the boy Daemon could be a child for once.
They seemed to laugh, which was good, but then Horace boy once grimaced at Daemon's jest, shooting a fierce glare back at the larger but younger boy as Daemon's arm shot out into the Hogg lad's shoulder after a laugh.
"Boy!" Quentyn yelled from his seat, as he did when Daemon was his squire. The boy heard him through the rabble of the feast, and his head perked up like a hounds'. "C'mere!" Quentyn screamed. "I need ya!"
Daemon apologized to the boys around him, or so it looked, and they all laughed heartily, likely at Quentyn's expense, and he scaled down from the Lord's high table to his former mentor. "What is it Q?"
"Come for a moment." Quentyn stood, the rush of ale whishing around in his head, before stepping over to a quieter spot away from the Goldcloaks and Hogg boys.
"Careful what jests you make with these boys. Eventually, they will be lords and sers. Just cuz you're bigger and stronger and royal and all, don't think they don't have ways of being thorns for you later if you are unkind to them now."
"Come on, Q. You think I get a name and a sword and I become someone else entirely? You nearly raised me. You think I don't know how to act with lords? Major or minor? Besides, why should I be anything but kind to these people? I might knight the one, Horace. Why not?"
"Don't knight him, but aye. I'm just drunk," the elder knight smiled.
Quentyn had never raised a boy before. It seemed he wasn't that bad of a teacher after all.